The House of Blue Mangoes (31 page)

‘You are new here, sir!’ the man said when Daniel caught his eye.

‘I’m a visitor. I’m waiting for someone. Mr Cooke.’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Chris, he’s a good man. The British are good people. Are you liking the British?’

Daniel hadn’t really considered the matter and wasn’t expecting to be interrogated about it, least of all by a stranger, so he took his time to answer. Not very interested in politics to begin with, the demands of the clinic, family and his growing business had further eroded the attention he paid to the political events of the day. But he supposed he did approve of the British in a distant sort of way. They had brought stability and discipline to the country. His grandfather Jacob, like many Indian Christians, had admired them, especially the missionaries, for their efforts to alleviate the misery of the lower caste groups. Further, his childhood friendship with Father Ashworth had predisposed him to look favourably upon the white man. Aaron’s arrest by the British had dismayed him, and for a while he had begun to read the papers diligently. But the tragic developments within the family had pushed everything else from his mind. When he had resumed his efforts to see Aaron, the intransigence of the authorities had irked him considerably, but his meeting with Cooke had succeeded in partially restoring his faith in the British. On balance, it would seem that he didn’t mind them at all. Realizing the stranger was waiting for an answer, he said, ‘I don’t think they are too bad.’

‘Very good, sir, very good. May I be knowing your good name?’

‘Dr Daniel Dorai.’

‘Christian? Andavar Christian?’ Although it was quite cool, there was a sheen of sweat on the man’s jowly face.

‘Yes.’ His interlocutor was speaking in English so Daniel, not entirely comfortable with the language, decided to keep his replies short.

‘Myself Vardaraja Mudaliar.’

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’

Just then a thought occurred to his new friend. His brow furrowed. Daniel watched as a drop of sweat collected in the frown and meandered into a bushy eyebrow.

‘You are not by any chance the famous Dr Dorai? All my family is using your thylam, sir, and I’m also planning to use it.’

When Daniel admitted his identity, Mudaliar retorted, ‘You are knowing who I am?’

Daniel said he did not.

‘Sir, my name was mentioned in a report of the Justice Party, in the paper that you are reading.’

When he saw Daniel hesitate, his brow furrowed again, this time in irritation. ‘You are not knowing about the Justice Party?’

Daniel was glad to say that he had indeed heard of the party.

‘We are engaged in a most important task, sir,’ Mudaliar said. ‘We are committed to breaking the conspiracy. You are knowing?’

The experience was unnerving. Daniel was glad to practise his English but his rather tenuous grasp on politics and current affairs made him feel completely out of place in Mudaliar’s company. A reply was expected but as he didn’t have the faintest idea of what conspiracy Mudaliar was referring to, Daniel took the safe option.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘You must know the fucts,’ Mudaliar said. ‘Without the fucts the truth will never come out.’ It took Daniel a moment or two to work out that his companion was referring to ‘facts’. Not that it mattered, for Mudaliar was paying no attention to him. He was suddenly filled with an intense desire to get out of the other’s clutches. He glanced down covertly at his watch, but before he could see what time it was, Mudaliar’s sweaty hand took hold of his.

‘For thousands of years the Brahmins have conspired to keep us down, Mr Daniel,’ he said passionately. ‘I will restrict myself only to the fucts to prove it. Kindly allow myself to place them before you.’ He raised a thick finger. ‘I’m telling you, sir, these fucts are unimpeachable as they have been compiled by the Government of Madras. In 1912, the latest year for which figures are available, there were three hundred and forty-nine Brahmin tahsildars and deputy tahsildars compared to one hundred and thirty-four non-Brahmin Hindu tahsildars. Christian and Muslim even less. Brahmins had over seventy per cent graduates. You are Christian, Mr Daniel, do you know what the Christian percentage was? Five point three per cent! How could this happen? Same with law colleges, teachers’ colleges, everywhere nothing but Brahmin, Brahmin . . . Sir, let me quote an illustrious Justicite who said in a statement to the Royal Public Services Commission in Madras, “The Brahmin has been for thousands of years the custodian and object of all intellectual culture, and the other castes have in consequence been placed in a very disadvantageous position intellectually.’’’

He released Daniel’s hand to mop his brow with his shoulder cloth. A couple of large and prosperous-looking men greeted him and he introduced them to Daniel who folded his palms in a namaskaram. They grinned broadly back at him. Vardaraja Mudaliar heaved his capacious bulk out of his chair and made to go. ‘You are not a member of our party, sir?’

Daniel shook his head but Mudaliar wasn’t finished. ‘But you will be soon,’ he said. ‘All right-thinking people must join the fight. As the great poet Subramania Bharati, himself a Brahmin, has said, “Now that India is actually awakening to a New Age it will be well for my Brahmin countrymen if they voluntarily relinquish all their old pretensions, together with the silly and anti-national customs based on such pretensions, and lead the way for the establishment of liberty, equality and fraternity among Indians . . .’’’ Vardaraja Mudaliar looked at Daniel meaningfully. Daniel was tempted to reply that he had no quarrel with Brahmins but was spared any further discourse with him, for Cooke had arrived in their midst. The three men were preparing to draw Cooke too into the conversation when he slipped smoothly out of their clutches, much to Daniel’s admiration. ‘We’re late for a dinner appointment, gentlemen. Now if you’ll excuse us.’ He steered Daniel through the chairs and out into the portico where his car and driver were waiting.

As the car pulled out of the driveway into the bustle of Mount Road, Cooke turned to Daniel. ‘What did you think of our friend Vardaraja?’ He pronounced the name ‘Werderja’ and for the first time Daniel did not feel as diffident about his English.

‘Oh, he’s very passionate. But I’m not comfortable with politics and more so caste and religion. I’ve already lost my father and brother to it. In fact . . .’ He stopped, embarrassed, as he realized that Cooke had merely been making polite conversation and hadn’t invited an outpouring of the soul.

‘Yes, I understand,’ Cooke said diplomatically and Daniel’s embarrassment deepened. Why did he feel so out of place in the city? He looked out of the window and was dazzled by the crowds, the traffic, the lights, the wealth, the glitter . . . He thought of when he had first arrived in Nagercoil. He had found the pace of town life unnerving but this was of a wholly different order. And yet, despite everything, he had the curious sensation that the entire edifice was nothing more than a thin pulsing rim of light and froth on top of a greater darkness. A major cataclysm and it would be gone, leaving behind the timeless rocks and sand.

The car moved through the great commercial districts of the city and his host pointed out the famous stores and establishments of what had once been the first city of the country: Spencer’s, Whiteaway Laidlaw, P. Orr & Sons, Higginbotham’s, C. M. Curzon & Co. They stopped at a couple of shops and Daniel bought a set of earrings encrusted with pearls for Lily, a Singer sewing machine for Charity, and some toys for the children. But he was not much of a shopper and gratefully accepted his host’s suggestion that they go for a drive before supper. As they motored through Mount Road, Cooke pointed out further landmarks – the Lyric Theatre, the D’Angelis hotel, the
Hindu
building, the
Mail
offices.

They left the main artery and drove through a web of small lanes, the car inching its way through the throngs of people on the roads and pavements. Everywhere Daniel looked there was busy and colourful activity. Once again, he felt a sense of disorientation. He wondered how the people who lived here could cope with the city’s activity, its enormity, its absoluteness.

After some time, they crossed a bridge over a sluggish river and were driving down a broad road with light traffic and hardly any people. The familiar smell of the sea filled his nostrils. Lamps cast their dusty light for a few metres of the beach but beyond there was only the night stretching over the limitless sea. The crowded city might never have existed. He turned to look out of the other window and was staggered by what he saw: a cliff of buildings, dozens of feet high, pricked with lights. He realized that this was where he had come to meet Cooke two days ago. The buildings had been impressive enough during the day, but now they were truly resplendent, a triumph of man’s ambition and power.

Cooke said, ‘Tremendous, aren’t they? I don’t know why we ever decided to abandon Madras in favour of Calcutta.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Cooke laughed. ‘Part of our strategy, old boy. We couldn’t bring London here to impress you chaps, so we decided to build our own palaces to show that we could be as grand as any maharajah, zamindar or mirasidar. They are a jolly impressive sight, aren’t they? I often drive home along this road to marvel at them.’

He murmured the names of the buildings as they rolled by – Chepauk Palace, the university buildings, Presidency College, Senate House, the PWD building, the Ice House looking like an oddly risen cake. They left the long line of buildings behind and entered the quiet neighbourhood of Adyar where Cooke lived, in a sprawling bungalow on the banks of the river.

In the high-ceilinged drawing room, they had a quick drink with Cooke’s wife, Barbara, a tiny woman with startlingly blue eyes. As they went in to supper, Cooke put his arm briefly around his wife’s shoulders. They make a handsome couple, Daniel thought – Cooke, tall and athletic, his brown hair barely flecked with grey in early middle age, and his lively petite wife. The Cookes’ two small children, a boy and girl, came and wished their parents and their guest goodnight before trailing away in the wake of their governess.

Supper was an enjoyable meal and Barbara, who was something of an amateur historian, regaled Daniel with stories of Madras. The food was excellent. As the meal progressed, Daniel found himself somewhat envious of the Cookes. He could have a house like this if he wanted, he supposed. He had the money. But innately modest, he had never had any ambition for a grander house in Nagercoil. And besides, what would he need such a big house for? Come to think of it, what did the Cookes need such a big house for? There were only four of them.

His musings were cut short when Barbara rose to leave, summoned by the governess to the side of her daughter who had not been well that day. Cooke suggested they retire to the veranda for coffee and cigars. Daniel declined the cigar.

‘Are you sure? It’s a Spencer’s Light of Asia. Haven’t smoked a better brand.’

‘Quite sure,’ Daniel said. They sat without speaking, savouring the quiet of the night. A fragrance of frangipani wafted over them.

‘Are the frangipani still flourishing in Chevathar? I remember I used to anticipate their fragrance long before I actually got to them.’

‘I haven’t been . . .’ Daniel hesitated. His host wasn’t interested in his family’s troubled history! ‘There are still a couple of trees, but the rest are gone.’ The remark triggered a cascade of images and he longed fiercely to be in Chevathar.

‘Pity. But I suppose change has its own consequences. I hear Meenakshikoil is booming.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘And your own business? You are a wealthy man, Daniel. Your father would have been proud of you.’

Memories of Solomon, Aaron, Chevathar welled up in his mind, and he pushed them away, fighting to keep his composure. They sat in silence for a bit after that. Cooke puffed out a luxurious cloud of smoke, then asked casually, ‘Why did Aaron get mixed up with those terrorists?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Cooke. Perhaps he believed in their struggle.’

‘Killing an innocent man just because he was doing his job?’

‘That was wrong,’ Daniel said. Yes, it was, Cooke thought. It was.

‘You said you weren’t interested in politics, Daniel?’

‘Not really . . .’

‘You’re like Barbara then. She’s banned politics at the dinner table,’ Cooke said with a laugh. Then he asked: ‘So how did Vardaraja Mudaliar get you to listen to him? Hypnosis?’

Daniel opted for diplomacy. ‘He’s a forceful speaker. I found his views on the Justice Party fascinating.’

‘Ah yes, our friends the Justicites. Appears they are the only friends we have left . . . They have their own objectives, but at least they’re willing to work with us. Montagu is a good and decent man, but he has to contend with a bewildering variety of pulls and struggles. The Indian nationalists must realize that. The reforms he is proposing, the areas in which he suggests that Indians be part of decision-making, are the best he can do. Why doesn’t Congress see that?’

‘Mr Mudaliar was saying something to me about Brahmins. He reeled off a lot of facts and figures.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s old Vardaraja for you. He was a mathematics teacher, you know. But that’s the principal agenda of the Justice Party. They feel they must fight for the rights of tens of millions of non-Brahmins who have been unfairly kept down by the Brahmins. Can’t say I blame them.’ Cooke’s cigar had almost burned down to the nub. ‘Sorry, I’m boring you with politics.’

‘No, it’s quite fascinating.’

The Englishman wondered whether this was the moment to tell Daniel what he had been keeping to himself. But his guest was leaving the next day and he wouldn’t have another opportunity.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ he began, trying to keep his tone light. ‘After I wrote to you I wired Superintendent Rolfe who runs the Melur jail, and he wired back to say that Aaron is ill. Tuberculosis, I’m afraid.’

‘How bad?’ Daniel asked.

‘Not too bad, apparently, but instructions have been sent through the relevant channels that he be moved to Ranivoor. There’s a better equipped Sub-jail there with a brand-new infirmary.’